


We've Still Got Time

by gentlesleaze



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-11 01:06:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11703606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlesleaze/pseuds/gentlesleaze
Summary: In the aftermath of Paris’ attack, Rosaline and Benvolio share a moment of calm as they await their next move.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Post-canon picking up right where the finale left off.

There’s an inescapable pounding in his head as he lifts Escalus’ arm over his shoulder, hauling him onto his feet and away from the town square. A cacophony of screaming citizens, of bodies falling as they’re struck by the speeding arrows that surge through the air in their lethal velocity, surround them as the trio stop and start to avoid the onslaught.  
  
Rosaline’s grunts of exertion as she holds the Prince’s other arm steady, supporting him as much as she’s able while they limp along, are Benvolio’s only comfort in the chaos that’s erupted in the wake of Paris’ attack. It’s a sign of life; that she is unharmed and still there, and for as much as he prays for the well-being of the man beside him, it is her safety which matters to Benvolio most of all.  
  
He feels lightheaded, blood and adrenaline rushing through him, just as they’ve managed to turn a corner into a narrow alleyway, escaping the center of the madness. Hours spent in his unforgiving prison, physically pained and mentally even more so have left an enduring exhaustion in his very bones. And the absolute relief of being spared the blade of the guillotine is just as disorientating.  
  
Royal guards — about four or five from what he can see — protect their front and back as they’re lead through to more passages, each more deserted than the last, and then down beneath Verona herself into a maze of tunnels that, as they’re informed, lead straight to the center of the palace.  
  
“Hold on,” he can hear Rosaline whisper, her tone assertive and less frantic now. “We’re almost there.”  
  
When they are within the palace walls, they are met with another frenzy of people, only this time the madness is a welcomed one as servants and soldiers and physicians encircle them. Two men lift Escalus out of their grasp and into the nearest bedchamber, already set aside for his arrival.  
  
Princess Isabella is close behind, pushing past advisors and the like who block her path. Her eyes are a raging storm of worry and authority, the gentle touch she gives the spot above her brother’s wound contrasting the intensity of her commands.  
  
Benvolio and Rosaline stand at the entrance, tired and at a loss for what more they can do amidst the commotion. He leans against the doorframe, his hand resting at her waist in a soothing gesture that feels so second-nature to him he does not hesitate in the action. Her own hand rests on his chest, beneath the worn and faded leather of his doublet. She clutches at the equally sullied fabric of his tunic as he tugs her closer to him, the both of them enraptured by the dizzying sight of the Prince being attended to until a gentleman dressed in black and gold-colored robes appears in before them.  
  
“You cannot be here,” he says, impatiently, hardly sparing them a glance before he’s pressing against Benvolio’s bicep, ushering them out of the room. Rosaline, mouth agape and resisting the order, peers above the man’s head, searching for Isabella, but the newly appointed sovereign is too focused on Escalus to give attention to anything or anyone else.  
  
Reluctantly, they step into the outer hall, where the door is promptly shut. The muted chatter from inside is the only indication either have of what’s going on.  
  
“He’ll be alright,” Benvolio says after a beat, the reassurance a genuine one. “He’s strong, our Prince,” he adds with a breathy chuckle otherwise imperceptible if not for the deafening silence of the hallway, flexing his jaw a fraction at the memory of their earlier encounter.  
  
He watches as Rosaline’s brow creases sharply, mouth held shut and gaze affixed to the illustrious craftsmanship of the door’s carvings, eventually letting out a lengthy exhale which seems to carry away her stress with it. She turns to him then, straightening her stance, tears successfully kept at bay.  
  
“I should…” she starts to say, then coughs to clear the hoarseness from her throat. “We should stay, see if we’re needed. How we might help—”  
  
“I know.” He sees the hint of a smile blooming upon her lips, grateful to be understood.  
  
Benvolio marvels for a moment at the progress they’ve made; at how easily they fall into their partnership, once forged by obligation now sustained by mutual trust. They do not always agree — have argued more often than not — but for the things that really matter, they find themselves united.  
  
A spark ignites under his skin at the feeling of her fingers brushing against his, swaying and getting bolder with every pass. He lets the rugged pads of his own trace the smoothness of her palm before interlocking their hands, his thumb stroking lightly as Rosaline tightens her grip.  
  
“Come,” he offers, canting his head toward a cushioned bench just a few feet away from where they are, flush against the wall opposite Escalus’ temporary quarters.  
  
Their shoes click against the marble floor as they walk together, the echo so different from the turbulence in the streets. How many men had penetrated the city? How many more are yet to invade? How are they to know who among them is allegiant to Verona and not a spy from Mantua?  
  
At least he knows one thing with unyielding certainty: with Rosaline, there never need be a doubt in his mind (or in his heart) where her loyalties lie.  
  
They deflate onto the chair, hands still intertwined and thighs touching (or as close as is possible through the layers of fabric of her skirt and studded cloak). The seat is small, just enough space for the pair of them, though if they were resting on something twice the size, it would not matter. Their desire to remain unseparated is such that their position would be the same regardless.  
  
As close as they are, he can feel the rise and fall of her breathing, can sense the weariness pouring out from her. While he had been immobile for the past day, she had been nothing but constant movement, he’s sure.  
  
“Did you not sleep, Capulet?”  
  
“How could I,” she responds, sounding far away, as though she’s been transported back in time to when his fate had been doomed and her thoughts had been consumed with the sorrow of having failed him. He slides their hands into his lap, the act enough to disrupt her recollections. “Did you?”  
  
“Like a babe.”  
  
Her laughter bursts forth, surprising them both. It is a much needed release, and Benvolio is all too happy to have been the cause. It is the least he can do for the woman who saved his life with the power of her devotion.  
  
As her giggling subsides into a contented hum, Rosaline adjusts so that she may place her cheek upon his shoulder, her head nestling there intimately. The soft strands of her hair tickle, a tingling he feels all along his spine. Her body is a welcomed weight against him, growing heavy as the minutes pass and she succumbs to her fatigue. Benvolio bends his head, mirroring her pose as he leans his chin atop her crown.  
  
And so, they wait while sleep overtakes them at last.  
  
.  
  
He’s awakened by the slamming of the chamber door, so thunderous to his ears he believes himself back within the confines of his cell in the depths of the decaying dungeon. His muscles stiffen and his breath is shallow, his lapse of awareness brought to an end by the squeezing of his hand and the murmuring of his name.  
  
“The princess,” Rosaline announces, quietly enough so only he can hear. They get up from the bench, straightening their clothes and only releasing their hold on each other to give Isabella a proper greeting.  
  
Gone are the delicate gold detailing of her collar, her gown from before replaced with a simple ensemble (or as simple as the Princess Regent’s standards will allow). Her eyes are no longer swollen and red-rimmed, her mask of composure firmly back in place since the events of the morning. But she appears kinder now, too, less plagued by the pain of Escalus’ trauma.  
  
“Prince Escalus is recovering,” declares a man from behind her, the same one who had kicked them out prior. Rosaline let’s out a choked sob at the news, Isabella meeting her where she stands as both woman share the moment of joy, a private celebration between childhood companions. Benvolio does not miss the unspoken command from the older man: that the Prince is not to be disturbed, not even by the heir’s of the city’s two great houses.  
  
“I thank you for your efforts,” Isabella says, her high spirits belying her regal air. “The both of you,” she repeats, looking pointedly at Benvolio with a nod of acknowledgment.  
  
Her appraisal of him continues as she seems to examine his entire person, taking in his haggard state. He does not cower under her scrutiny, however, letting her see the effects of his false imprisonment.  
  
“As a show of my gratitude, allow my servants to attend to you. It would be unwise to return to your respective homes during such unrest. You both may stay here for as long as necessary.”  
  
There is warmth in her expression as she extends the invitation to Rosaline, which fades when the Princess looks upon him once more. Despite her kind proposal, there is a coldness beneath of the surface that he cannot fault her for. As far as she knows, he is as guilty as her brother had been convinced he was. He thinks fleetingly on the long road to restoring his reputation, on the damage that’s been done, and comes to realize that he really doesn’t much care at all. He is a free man, in more ways than one.  
  
(Though the matter of his uncle’s deeds is a different beast altogether, one he has every intention of rectifying.)  
  
More people depart from the room, and Isabella takes her leave, a troop of nobleman and assistants trailing close behind.  
  
A young boy and maid approach them then, newly assigned to serve Capulet and Montague during their visit at Her Majesty’s behest.  
  
Rosaline and Benvolio simply stare at one another, alone again and their moods made lighter at knowing that Escalus lives; that Benvolio himself lives as well. They are small victories, some of a multitude of obstacles they’ve yet to face.  
  
But for now, there is peace. They’ve been given the gift of time, and at least for tonight they shall take pleasure in the rare reprieve.  
  
“Go take your bath,” Rosaline says, mirth in her voice. “By the time you’ve finished, the fight for Verona shall be over.”  
  
He gives her a side-long glance at that, rolling his eyes at her teasing, amusement shining through his façade of annoyance. Benvolio’s grin is impossible to conceal and so he gives up the attempt, smiling broadly as she goes to him.  
  
“I’ll endeavor to be much faster this time, since I know it won’t be my last.”  
  
Her smirk falters, replaced with something more meaningful. Something like hope, which, in typical Rosaline-fashion, transforms into unwavering determination within a matter of seconds. “No, it shall not.”  
  
There is a pause, a brief instance where they let themselves take in the person before them: their former enemy now become their truest friend. Her hair is a mess, curls in disarray; her once glittering dress covered in dust and frayed at the edges. There are traces of her dried tears along her cheekbones, but her rich brown eyes sparkle in the candlelight.  
  
She is stunning, and he can scarcely believe she had kis—  
  
Suddenly, he’s being pulled into a hug, Rosaline’s arms wrapping around him. She melts into the embrace, face burrowing against his neck. He holds her just as fiercely, taking just as much comfort in the contact.  
  
When they separate, it is with lingering hands at his forearm and tucking of brunette ringlets behind her ear. Slowly, Benvolio raises her hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles, his nose grazing her skin as he pulls away.  
  
Eventually they are escorted to their separate rooms, at separate ends of the palace, but not before they exchange parting looks as they walk down the corridor, silently bidding each other good night.  
  
_Until tomorrow, and all the days to follow._    
  
  
.


	2. Part 2

That night, sleep eludes her as it had before, only this time instead of revolving concerns over Benvolio’s demise and all she could’ve done to prevent it, it is of their time spent together mere hours ago. Of how he had stayed with her outside the Prince’s room, his hand curled securely around hers. Of the feel of him beneath her head as she drifted off in a rare moment of repose. Of the firmness of his hold as his arms wrapped around her as they embraced.  
  
Of a kiss shared in the dark depths of the dungeon, timid and desperate all at once.  
  
Of the way she had wanted him, and he had wanted her in return.  
  
Rosaline traces her fingertips along her bottom lip in a daze, her eyes half-lidded and her limbs sinking into the plush bedding of the palace's guest room. She absently thinks of the way his beard had scraped against her, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. The way his thumb caressed her cheek and how his tears had mixed with hers. The way they had breathed each other in, reluctant to leave.  
  
In all her life, she had never imagined she would’ve shared such an intimate moment with a Montague of all people, let alone that she would be spending what precious solitude she had reliving the moment in all it’s tactile detail. But much has changed between them since they were first bound to one another, against both of their wills at first yet now at their own choosing.  
  
It’s when her mind starts to wander to envisioning Benvolio soaking in his tub and reliving the glimpse of him she had stolen during their journey outside Verona that she physically shakes herself out of her stupor. Comparisons to Juliet’s fanciful daydreams, and Rosaline’s own youthful affinity for Escalus spring forth, but in her gut she knows the way she feels now is something distinct.  
  
Still, there are more important matters to be preoccupied with, ones that required her immediate attention.  
  
She drapes a borrowed robe over her borrowed chemise, padding over to the thickly-curtained window overlooking the square below. The streets are barren and inert with the exception of the plumes of smoke that rise from this cart and that tent, and she is thankful at least that the discord has temporarily subsided. Her heart clinches at the lives lost and ruined all at the expense of a man’s (and her aunt’s) ambition. It makes her stomach churn at the notion that Livia is with him, trapped in a marriage and in a city not her own.  
  
Rosaline’s only comfort is the knowledge that, for the time being, Livia is likely safer in Mantua than she would be here. That her Capulet name and its benefit to Paris’ claim are enough to keep her out of harm’s way. The rational part of her brain knows this; that her focus should be on Verona and the dangers that exist here, but Rosaline is tired of being rational. She left her sister once in the pursuit of the greater good, and she cannot bring herself to do it again.  
  
.  
  
It’s no surprise that when she wakes, it is well into the morning, the sun long having risen and her maid pounding at her door.  
  
Rosaline dresses quickly, putting on the simplest of the gowns she is presented with, one with fewer sparkling crystals and made of more forgiving fabric—a warmer shade of blue bordering on purple—that allows at least some freedom of movement. She knows not when an occasion might arise where defending oneself or fleeing a scene would be crucial. An unfortunate precaution to be taken, but one she does not hesitate it taking nonetheless.  
  
She expects the hallways to be empty at this hour, as they usually have been during her recent visits, but today they are abuzz with activity, servants and soldiers and the like shuffling from one corner to the next. The need to be useful and productive surges within her. Rosaline refused to remain idle while the whole palace seemed to convene about how next to proceed, and she knew just the task to undertake.  
  
But first, she would see to Escalus.  
  
As she approaches his chambers, she halts her steps at the sight of Princess Isabella, surrounded by guards, vigilant as ever, and Benvolio engaged in conversation just outside of it. Reflexively, she makes to join them, but something about the scene before her gives her pause.  
  
Isabella stands solid as a rod, the epitome of regal detachment, while Benvolio, his back facing towards Rosaline, is just as stiff with his wrists folded behind him. Concealing herself behind a marbled column, she strains to hear them, her efforts aided by the reverberation of the hall. She catches on mid-sentence, determining that the Princess Regent has just advised Benvolio not to visit her brother without her permission. A strange condition, considering the man helped in saving the Prince. And Rosaline knows the same warning has not—and would not—be given to her.  
  
“It is simply my wish to avoid a second confrontation between the two of you,” Isabella concludes cooly, but Rosaline can read the veiled irritation in her tone. And by the looks of it, so can he.  
  
“You needn’t explain yourself to me, Your Grace,” replies Benvolio, just as calmly, an upbringing spent amidst nobility serving him well. But then, his shoulders slacken and he leans down a fraction, as though he were about to take a bow. “I mean the Prince no harm,” he continues, voice low and earnest. “I owe him my gratitude for sparing my life, especially since doing so nearly cost him his.”  
  
Isabella hums in acknowledgement, though not maliciously, apparently swayed in her negative opinion by the power of his vulnerability. Rosaline knows the feeling well.  
  
“Escalus is a good man,” she says finally. “But he did what he did for the sake of another.”  
  
“Of that I know,” the young Montague answers immediately. “It is her I am grateful to most of all.”  
  
Rosaline is so startled by the declaration—although, she really oughtn’t be, for his appreciation for her attempts at clearing his name has been evident since the minute she disclosed her lack of success; yet, something about hearing him say the words has an undeniable effect on her—that she neglects to notice Isabella’s departure and that Benvolio is nearing her position.  
  
Stealthily, she takes a few steps back and feigns her arrival, almost colliding with him in the process.  
  
“ _Capulet_ ,” he gasps, instantly reaching out to steady her. His features, previously somber and distracted, gradually brighten the longer he looks at her, as though his troubles have evaporated in her company. Or so she hopes.  
  
It’s not just his expression, but his overall appearance that has brightened since the last time she saw him, bloodied and dirtied from his ordeal. His face is clean, save for the few fading bruises that have become a permeant fixture. His hair is swept back with the exception of an errant wave which seems never to cooperate. He’s dressed in clothes that, just like hers, are borrowed: a grey collared blouse and burgundy vest (she dares not look lower than that.)  
  
He is handsome indeed.  
  
It’s as if she’s seeing him for the first time, and also not. The night’s rest has revitalized him, but she finds herself missing his characteristic black and head-to-toe leather. She longs for when they can both return to their true selves and be unsettled no longer.  
  
“My lord,” she teases, trying to keep her wits about her. “How is he?” Rosaline gestures towards Escalus’ closed bedroom door.  
  
“Well, or so I’ve been told. I wasn’t allowed entry.” His air is nonchalant, a ruse she would likely believe had she not stumbled upon his encounter with the Princess. That, and the clenching of his jaw gives him away. “But I’m sure you’ll fair better than I, should you wish—”  
  
“No, it’s fine. I had wanted to speak… with you.”  
  
Without delay, she has his full attention, his blue-green eyes striking in the light that reflects off the pristine walls. Even after all they’ve been through, after all they’ve confided and shared, he’s still surprised at her seeking him out. She wonders tangentially what she can do to change that.  
  
Inhaling deeply, she tells him, plainly and with little preamble, of her desire to move forward with a plan to save Livia; that she seeks to leave Verona yet again with the intent of rescuing her instead of waiting for the royal army to do so.  
  
Her words are met with silence. She can feel her forehead crease in anticipation of his reaction, but he is unreadable, expectant even.  
  
“And?”  
  
“’And’?” she parrots incredulously. “What do you mean—”  
  
“You said you had a plan.”  
  
“Well not yet, but you’re… on board with this?” she asks, the picture of disbelief. “You’re not going to try to talk me out of it? You don’t think me mad for even suggesting—”  
  
“Of course you’re mad, Capulet. I’ve long since accepted that about you,” he interjects with a playful haughtiness, an attitude which once annoyed but now amuses her. “But she’s your sister,” he presses on, sobering. “She’s in trouble, and no force on this Earth shall stop you from getting her back.”  
  
Rosaline visibly softens at his affirmation, gawking at him inelegantly, awed at being so unconditionally understood and, above all, supported. She had been so prepared to argue her case, to compel him to join her and assist her. While she knew Benvolio would be the most receptive to her plea—memories of disputes with Escalus and Isabella and her own aunt and uncle coming to the forefront of her mind—she hadn’t expected the readiness of his acceptance. It’s… nice.  
  
“However you choose to go about doing so,” he says after a beat. “I’m with you.”  
  
Her brow crinkles and her lips press together tightly as water fills her eyes, nodding as she coughs against the welling up of emotion. With a hand at the small of her back, he guides her to the dining room, where a late breakfast awaits them.  
  
As she’s ushered past the gilded archway that leads into the main foyer, she slows her pace and looks up at him curiously. “Benvolio,” she begins cautiously, the use of his name bringing them to a stop. “What did Isabella mean about a ‘second confrontation’ between you and Escalus?”  
  
He tenses up at her question, gaze turned down and away from her.  
  
“I overheard you talking,” Rosaline explains gently, her admission conveying her appeal to uphold the trust between them.  
  
He exhales shakily before facing her once more. “Before my execution, the Prince requested a private audience with me. We… discussed some things.” She takes his hand, hoping to put him at ease, but he is determined to be discreet about the specifics. “We talked about you,” is all he reveals, with the added assurance that, “He only wanted to make sure you’d be safe.”  
  
She knows there’s more to it, but just as Benvolio had placed his faith in her, she does the same for him. She pries no further.  
  
(Though Escalus will be a different matter.)  
  
.  
  
The dining area is vacant when they arrive, only a sprinkling of servers occupying the expanse as they dispose of used plates and refill a pair of wine goblets where Rosaline and Benvolio take their seats side by side. A modest spread is brought before them, a platter filled with wedges of cheese and thinly sliced meats, toasted bread and a separate tray of fresh fruit.  
  
(She thinks briefly on the excess within the palace, how as the battle for their city and its people draws nearer, that perhaps rationing might be something to consider. She resolves to bring the suggestion to Isabella.)  
  
They partake in their meal quietly, companionably, occasionally commenting (and criticizing) their surroundings with easy smiles and between mouthfuls of food and drink. The last time they were here it was at the Prince’s feast held in honor of the Capulet’s and Montague’s new treaty at their expense, sitting across from each other with cold looks and bitter exasperation at having to not only be in the other’s presence, but in the presence of so many bickering members of their feuding houses.  
  
Now, it’s only warm glances that are exchanged, a nebulous mixture of comfortable and shy. She catches him staring a second too long as she sips from her glass, while she watches him pluck a grape from its branch and pop it into his mouth (his favorite, she remembers.) If Livia could see her, she’d never hear the end of it, conjuring vivid images of her little sister swooning and squealing over the sickly sweet flirtation currently on display. Rosaline misses her all the more for it.  
  
They’re in the middle of their fare when a maid comes to stand at Benvolio’s left, whispering a message in his ear that pulls the smile from his face and transforms it into a withering glare. He thanks the girl, rigidly, then practically growls out: “Tell him to leave me be.”  
  
It takes some time for the tension of dissipate, but Rosaline patiently waits him out. She grasps his hand under the table, her fingers gripping at his so he may be assured of her solidarity.  
  
“What’s happened?”  
  
She can see the wheels turning in his head, deciding whether to confide in her, how much to relay, if he should let her in. Benvolio fidgets in his chair, scanning the area for any unwelcome stranglers and seems satisfied enough with the amount of privacy they’ve been afforded. He shifts to angle himself towards her as much as he can, his legs parting so that her knees may rest within the space in-between.  
  
At last, he tells her. While she suspected the missive might be from Lord Montague, Rosaline could not have anticipated the tragic truth Benvolio had uncovered two days prior while he rotted away in his cell. He had been visited by his aunt, he recounts, who had spun a tale of the cause of his father’s (and eventually, his mother’s) untimely death. Except the tale had been fact, which his uncle had all but confessed to when he had paid his nephew a visit of his own.  
  
He tells her of the heartbreaking clarity the revelation had provided about the nature of his childhood. About the sudden, inexplicable loss of his parents. About being striped of his rightful title and legacy, only to be imprisoned in his quest to salvage his family name.  
  
A tear slides down his cheek, followed by another, but as ever, Benvolio does not wipe them away. He is unashamed of his sensitivity. She cups his face in her palms, brushing away the evidence of his grief for him.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she says, uneven but sincere.  
  
She recalls their meeting in her old home and how she can cried in her frustration at reliving the death of her own parents. He had extended the same condolences, and at the time she thought them disingenuous. Now, however, she sees her own experience reflected in his. That they are more alike than she could have ever guessed.  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
“I know not,” he responds, straightening himself and making to stand, helping Rosaline up as well. “At present, Paris and your sister are the priority. And then, my uncle will answer for his crime, of that I swear.”  
  
They walk together towards the library—or, if that’s occupied, some other isolated place where they may plot their escape from Verona and infiltration of Mantua. But before they start, Rosaline seeks to make her allegiance to Benvolio, true heir of House Montague and beloved friend, clear.  
  
“Whatever you decide,” she promises him, echoing his earlier statement of devotion. “I’m with you.”  
  
  
.


End file.
